Philadelphia Phillies: The Placido Polanco Effect

So, I’m watching TV waiting for these people to get eaten by sharks when a thought crosses my mind: They can’t get eaten—they’re telling the story.

But wait. I can only see them from the neck up. Perhaps someone lost a limb.

There is hope.

There is hope for a pennant too.

That same “Throw them to the sharks” mentally is what Phillies fans are notorious for, so will they sigh with content at two straight four-game sweeps at home or will they expect the team to go in for the kill?

I’m not suggesting the Phillies will have to claw and scrape their way to the top of the division but it sure is nice to attain something with the effort the team has extended lately.

Take Ryan Howard for instance. He’s my vote for hardest working first baseman in America. It’s easy to observe his greatness, especially when he’s playing opposite Jason Giambi. Ryan was sliding and diving and working so hard he looked like he was dipped in chocolate sprinkles.

Someone should lick him off.

I’m sorry, I meant clean him off.

Then there’s Placido Polanco. He’s my vote for greatest spaz at third base. And now he’s playing Chase Utley quite well at second. Polly rules the Phillie Playmate of the Week pinup in my head and excites me so that I extend to him my highest rating yet—.

Wait, my husband says I can’t say that on public access. Let’s just call the third baseman my own Steely Dan.

Jimmy Rollins is back as the renewed leadoff hitter, Shane Victorino is stealing bases so fast I had to check to see if I still had my pants, and the Jayson Werth signs are back. Whatever Greg Gross is giving out, I’m sure it’s a secret and illegal and I want some.

Now that the lineup is hitting, Ruben Amaro, Jr can turn his attention to pitchers not named Hamels or Halladay. I hate to see him scrape the bank account dry but it’s not like he hasn’t tried some insiders.

We’ve seen Antonio Bastardo, Sergio Escalona, and I even had a dream that Brett Myers was back. But they were all gone by sunup.

Then there’s Scott Mathieson: He’s had more elbow surgeries than he has elbows. At this point why wouldn’t he just have them remove those ligaments altogether. Then he could be like RA Dickey, throw the elusive knuckleball, and set the record for most wild pitches in an inning.

Or he could find a side job as a contortionist. Either way, he’s wowing people.

Andrew Carpenter is a name that comes and goes like Hugh Hefner’s wives.

And who the hell is Vance Worley? He was gone before I could pull up the 25 man roster that bore his name. Now he’s mentioned as a candidate for a trade. It’s like the bullpen’s in a game of hide and seek.

Not long ago the Phils had a guy named Dane Sardinha catching pitches from the unknown Mike Zagurski.

Did you know Zagurski is Polish for “No neck?”

I thought not.

Did you know Dane is from Hawaii and his name rhymes with Shane so he and Victorino are neighbors?

Okay, maybe not. That was judgmental of me. It’s like saying since Pamela Anderson and I both have breasts we must be equally as buoyant.

We all know there’s no comparison. She’s like her own personal life vest. Well, unless she gets deflated. Unlike a guy, there’s nothing Viagra can do for her.

Men have all the options. They virtually pull up to the pharmaceutical air compressor when it’s honky-tonk time while girls have to wear their sex appeal around like a BabyBjörn.

Okay, maybe baby Björns are just what mine look like.

Wait, I’m completely off the subject. Where were we?

I know, things that interest me the most: sweaty men in uniform not married to me.

See, if I put it that way, my husband can’t put on a fancy hat, stand in the sun for a second, and think he has a chance without Tequila. I tell him that’s why The Village People haven’t staged a comeback—like a Charlie Manuel pinup, I think it’s illegal.

Like me going for a swim at the Playboy mansion. I can pay my way into the public pool but a fake bunny tattoo doesn’t get me into Hugh’s place even with my A-cup discount.

Besides childbirth has left me a little leaky—plus my stream now pulls to the right. If Pamela and I were in the pool together I’d have to stand to her left when I have to sneeze, especially if Hugh has that blue indicator in the pool.

I’m like a peeing ventriloquist.

I’m sorry. My husband says that’s too much information.

Speaking of my beau, he’s now following my blogging progress online. He said, “Dolly Pardon has 674-some thousand followers and you have 56. There are two reasons for that and both of them are holding up her blouse.”

What’s he saying—I need a strap-on chest?

Maybe I need a BigMamma Björn.

My husband says I need more help than that. Even the sharks won’t come for me.